Yoruichi By Theobrobine |link| Online

He lunged.

A whisper of movement. Not wind. Not sound. Intent. yoruichi by theobrobine

She walked toward him, slow and deliberate. Her hand came up, palm flat against his chest, over his heart. He lunged

She melted out of the shadow cast by a rusted water tower. At first, she was merely a silhouette—an impossible curve of hip and shoulder, the cascade of violet-black hair that the artist theobrobine renders in such sinuous, electric strokes. Then the moonlight found her. palm flat against his chest